To Say As Much
by shrieking minties 51
Summary: It is possible to be so unutterably irritating that one is able to drive those who know them into fits of rage simply by existing. -In which France learns he knows everything and nothing all at once. Crack, with FrUK tendencies and a very irate Germany.
1. Chapter 1

**Part One: **

**A/N: A very happy birthday to LifeInABox66! I'm sincerely hoping this fic is adequate It's largely based on a long, **_**long**_** discussion we've had/ are having about France, England, and how they seem to reach the same ends through entirely opposing means, irrespective of their actual intentions: in this case, getting **_**attention**_**. Comedy, with a dash of poignancy: in which France learns that he knows everything and nothing, all at once... **

**Part two shall be up extremely soon :D**

In which it begins:

It is possible to be so unutterably irritating that one is able to drive those who know them into fits of rage simply by _existing_.

France decides this in a fit of childish petulance inspired by the fact that England has greeted him not with a scoff or a dirty look, or even a shout, but with a curt nod, and a brief glance in his direction.

In front of _everyone_, at a _world meeting_.

It's positively _embarrassing_ to be treated so respectfully, with such cool lack of animosity. To be _ignored_, in a broader sense of the term. England must, of course, be doing it on purpose. Having a tantrum of some description. Of course, a tantrum was so like England, an unutterably childish behaviour. _So very _unlike France himself, albeit mostly due to the fact that France has more grace, originality, and flair than to act in such a manner (when he throws a fit, he does so with _style)_. And, so, being the picture of loveliness, maturity and calm that France is, he initially opts to ignore England straight back.

Mostly.

With the exception of a few minor slip-ups, France thinks he pulls off the mimicry of England quite well. He is sure to be as bright, gorgeous and vivacious as usual, if not moreso, and barely spares a glance in England's direction. England is sure to be _melting_ in horror at the thought of being so thoroughly ignored by the great France, and France will still pay him no mind. For he is devilishly handsome, charmingly brilliant, and he has never needed the attention of some pathetic little English-

"France," says Germany from the head of the conference table; and his voice does that weird quivering thing that happens a moment or two before Germany starts shrieking so loudly the walls bleed, "If you are so intent on capturing Mr. England's attention- perhaps you would like to call his name, rather than _sprawl yourself_ across the table in his direction?"

"Huh?" Oh...propriety.

It gnaws at him- not that he would ever say as much- for the rest of the day that England doesn't react to their exchange. He is shifting through his papers instead.

* * *

><p><span>In which the haunted bathroom offers sound(less) advice... and Spain is decidedly unhelpful.<span>

He is sure to behave as though he is completely unaffected by England's behaviour; with the exception of a brief (hour long) stint sobbing into Spain's chest after the meeting, who offers France a stream of words that would contain little immediately apparent usefulness to anyone, ever, ("People give me the silent treatment all the time, man. I just let it blow over- I don't really know why... Come to think of it, I don't really know why people stop doing it either, it's like they just kind of forget that I still don't know what's going on, and start screaming and screaming about compromising his Catholicism and tomatoes and -_ohmygod_!") before he is distracted by a passing squirrel.

Unwilling to liken his acquaintance with England to the spectacle of unsurpassed obliviousness and one-sided romantic rage that was Spain's relationship with Romano, France opts to seek advice from a source closer to, and less liable to giggle delightedly upon the death of (Spain was not one to hold a grudge, unless he was holding a grudge of course) the problem at hand.

The entire morning's events stun him because he _knows_ England. There's no two ways about the fact: he understands precisely what makes his (nemesis and) neighbour tick. Always has, always shall. But this; this is new. And he knows he won't rest properly until he finds some answers. As for the location of the answers, he's not entirely sure why he's started here; but at least he's started somewhere...

And perhaps this somewhere is precisely the right place to begin. For America, as America is wont to do, has a habit of causing England to behave in all manners of strange ways. England is never more fascinating than when America has caused him to do something completely unexpected.

Not that France would ever say as much on this topic, either.

"Here, this place looks deserted enough," says America, pulling the door shut behind him, "So, dude, how can the _hero_ help today?" and France was sure he _hears_ the sparkle from America's glasses, the glint of his teeth, and feels exasperation rising within him like a great wave. Perhaps this is a bad idea.

He also notes that America is sure to press himself firmly against the opposite wall and eye all of the available exits. The bathroom of America's hotel room is spacious enough, but with France, one is never willing to take risks in an enclosed area. France finds he has to reign in the leer that automatically crosses his features.

"_U-um, excuse me..._"

"He is ignoring me." France begins, eyeing America as though he holds _all_ the answers (poorly articulated answers, but answers nonetheless).

"England? Oh, yeah. He does that."

"Not to me." France insists vehemently.

"_Guys. I'm... I'm kind of..._"

"This never happens. This never happens because I'm... me. I am far too vivacious to go unnoticed!"

"If I knew what that word meant, I'd probably agree." Says America, producing a doughnut from his jacket pocket and wolfing it down in the most undignified manner possible. France wrinkles his nose in disgust, "Dude, must suck to be you right now."

"_Naked_."

America is decidedly unhelpful, France thinks, and tries to ignore the crumbs now littering the floor. "I just don't understand it." he clarifies, "Never have I been treated in such a fashion! And, as his, er, most and least favourite former charge, I presumed, however incorrectly, you have some understanding of what goes on in that charming little head of his."

"Yeah! Of course I know him! Just like I know how to fix this, because I'm a total hero like that!" America mumbles through the last of his doughnut.

"Do go on?" France queries. It is likely because his mind is otherwise occupied, but there is just something about this hero act that sucks the energy out of those around America today. He can almost feel a void in the atmosphere where he stands, roughly America's size.

America glances from one side of the bathroom to the other, appearing to search for something. "Um," he says at length.

"_I'm...I'm still naked_."

"Yes?" says France.

"_OH_. Oh. Heh, I don't know." America responds sheepishly, and quite unaware of France's swift, but thankfully brief temptation to claw his eyes out. His scoff of irritation echoes clearly in the bathroom. Funny. He hadn't noticed an echo before.

"You know him better than anyone else here. Ask him yourself." Says the echo, causing pair to leap a good foot into the air.

"MOTHER OF GOD!" bellows America, as France emits a near-operatic howl of shock.

They both recoil in terror as the voice reverberates around the bathroom again, "Oh, and next time you barge into someone's hotel room. Knock." Says the voice, before a towel begins to float in mid-air.

"Where is that coming from?" America squeals. France has calmed enough to notice a third figure in the room, wrapping a towel around its waist, and offers Canada a bewildered wave in greeting, clutching his chest in shock.

White as a ghost, America wheels around to face his brother. His demeanour immediately brightening, "Jeez, man. I thought you were a ghost or something!"

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I'm too awesome for your face to handle is what's wrong..."

"Never mind that, mon cher" France interrupts with a broad grin at his former charge, "You made a suggestion?"

France feels a pang of guilt when Canada appears completely taken aback by the fact that someone had made direct eye contact with him, but it quickly abates. France just _cannot_ seem to keep his eyes focused. "I was just saying that-"

"I mean, "says France suddenly, "I know nearly everything about him, I should be able to figure this out!"

"Well, that's what I was just saying, that-"

"That's it!" America slams a fist into his palm, "Why don't you just go _ask_ him what's wrong?"

There is a prolonged sigh, "I would love; just once," says Canada, "for you people to just... _not_."

But he remains unheard. France has already left the room, deep in thought.

"Hey," says America at length, "A floating towel!"

* * *

><p><span>In which the eyebrows have it<span>.

The key problem with asking England about his feelings upfront is that it is an extremely awful idea. So awful, in fact, that it should never be attempted lest one wishes to find oneself the victim of sudden, decidedly irrational violence. Foolhardy and stubborn though he can be at times, France is also bright; and yet to accomplish such levels of stupidity.

And so, the question remains of what move France ought to make next. Uttering the seemingly simple "What's wrong?" to England is potentially disastrous if not immediately succeeded by the phrase 'with your face' and an Olympic-qualifying sprint in the opposite direction. More to the point, capturing England's attention for long enough to utter a question would prove difficult, what with the man being insufferably determined to ignore him. Perhaps, then, observation will be key to his understanding of England's behaviour.

It's quite an unusual feeling, he decides the next day while stepping into the conference room, one he isn't used to, having to work to engage someone. Most often, France is the temperamental one whose bosses must explain to their associates that no, it's not really their fault France has ignored them, or left mid-conversation, but do try to be a little more captivating next time, he likes that; all philosophy and eschewing practicality. (_I want to hear about ideas, not numbers_, France usually says in response, _if you want to work for an unutterably stodgy Nation who is willing to listen to your drivel, be my guest. He lives across the Channel)._ And this observation ought to prove quite the learning curve, he decides.

If only he could catch England doing anything remotely interesting.

France has never considered himself to be a particularly obsessive personality (although in retrospect, the only time he ever confessed this perception of himself to an audience, said audience had briefly glanced from France himself, to England, and then positively _guffawed_) but he freely admits that perhaps he is taking this situation a little too seriously when he realises he has perched behind a pot plant with a pair of binoculars.

He checks his watch. England has glanced at his nails six times in the last hour, and attempted to injure America seven. Blushed furiously twelve, and hummed under his breath twice. France takes especial note of the humming. Partially out of the ordinary, he thinks, likely partaken in to fill the silences in whence England would normally be exchanging hurled insults, from the elaborate and witty (France), to the delightfully dissectible (England) and all those in between. France wouldn't dare to profess that he misses these exchanges already, but perhaps he does dramatically tear up a little when England begins to murmur the words to _Phantom of the Opera_ under his breath.

Disregarding his emotional distress, he attempts an insult experimentally:

"Hey, _Angleterre_. Surely my gloriousness has not rendered you completely dumbstruck. It is so very uncharacteristic of you to remain this agreeable for so long."

No response, not even the slightest shift in body language. To be entirely fair with himself, France had not expected it to work immediately. He tests the waters again...

"Or remotely tolerable at all, come to think of it..." he adds nonchalantly, scrunching a piece of paper from his newly-acquired notebook, (he is not _stalking_, he is completing a _thorough observation_) and tosses it in England's direction.

It is precisely when the piece of paper lands in a still-unresponsive England's hair that there is an ominous shift in the temperature of the room. France couldn't help the smile that flitted across his face. Oh, he was just _too easy_ to rile up. Opposite England, France sees Germany place a firm hand on Italy's arm, stilling his efforts to hastily produce a white flag.

He reaches for a second piece, pauses to revel in the tension in the air (of which America, babbling away obliviously, has noticed none), then says rather jovially, "Come, now, petit! You're not scared of me, are you?" and tosses another, smaller piece of paper in the air. Much to his delight, this piece sails through the space between them and rests, lightly, gracefully, and to the abject horror of absolutely everybody, on England's _eyebrow_.

The man is practically quivering in the effort to remain silent. One more push ought to do it.

"I don't blame the piece of paper for being attracted, you know. Your eyebrows are, ah, especially captivating today." He says, Cheshire grin, he rises from his (brilliant, if by 'brilliant' one means 'obvious') hiding place to lay an arm on the other's shoulder.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, France, cut it out!" England finally, _finally_, blurts out. Italy, as though loaded onto a spring, screams and flees from the room whilst Germany sighs, and rests his head on the table (presumably catching a nap before his efforts in disaster prevention were required).

"Ah, Angleterre, how I have missed you! Come, this is the part when you-"

"No."

"What?"

Here, something rather strange occurs. England pauses, and seems to collect himself, "I'm tired of fighting with y-," England says, before he is quite suddenly cut off...


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: And here we have it! Part two: where things take a more poginant turn. If France is able to stay on topic, that is. Lucky he's so good at this introspection thing.**

In which our heroes receive a rather stern lecture.

France can be as cold and cruel as anyone pleases at times. He possesses not only the erratic nature of a man who would maim another in a fit of passion, but the sharp eyes and terrible wit of a man who could never be caught. That is to say, if he weren't committing the sin in such a public place.

As it is, he is so unutterably stunned that he finds he has left an enormous hand-shaped welt across England's face.

"Ow." Says England, "_Bitch_!"

The ensuing brawl was the most spectacular in an age. Nature trembled, and the gods themselves fled before the mutually enraged might of two nations. Even between the two of them, it was rare to discover such immense damage to a permanent structure as occurred to the conference room that day. Especially damage inflicted by human-like creatures. If he were to be entirely honest with himself, France thought that the two of them deserved a medal for their efforts in demolition. Instead, France found himself lifted, mid swing, by the shirt-collar, and bodily carried into the next room by something much larger than him muttering to itself in German.

"In there. Now." Says the mobile lump of undiluted, Germanic fury carrying him. "You too, England. I need to have words with both of you." He hisses. Prussia had warned France about this once- about how when he is infuriated beyond screaming, Germany will _whisper_. He gulps.

"Germany, Germany, I want to help!" Behind them, with all the grace and subtlety of a cannonball, a man who was for all intents and purposes physically incapable of scolding anything larger than a kitten with any great effectiveness: is Italy.

"I-" says Germany, and then appears to wilt considerably under Italy's ensuing _look_, scrawny arms folded in some kind of adorably staunch defiance. "Very well, then. You can- you can guard the door."

"Yay!" Italy squawks, perching himself immediately by the exit, "you're the coolest! I love you, Germany."

"See," says France pointedly, as Germany makes some sort of non-word grumble of assent, "they haven't a qualm with expressing the closeness of their relationship. Now, if only you would admit to yourself-"

"_Thereisnothingtoadmit_." Like a spitting cat, England blurts, and slaps France's slowly approaching hand out of the way. With as much dignity as he could possibly muster, he plucks some plaster from his hair. France notices with no small amount of amusement that the piece of paper is still firmly tangled in his eyebrow, "Germany, I'm terribly sorry for the display out there, but I assure you it was the result of only a minor disagreement, and I'll be more than happy to pay for any reparations if you would _kindly_ let me g-"

"Does it _ever_," Germany interrupts. This is all mildly alarming; the shade of purple Germany's face is turning doesn't match the colour of his uniform at _all_, "even _remotely_... occur to you to take into consideration the scale of destruction your 'minor disagreements', as you call them, are liable to cause?" the man is unspeakably close to hyperventilating in rage. Witnessing another creature's demise into insanity, as a result of his and England's own actions, is always decidedly intriguing, France finds- and Germany is a particularly fascinating subject.

"Oh, please," he chides, "it isn't as if we are capable of performing any considerable damage with our bare hands- we are not brutes, such as America."

"_Woooow_" exclaims Italy, head out the door, "I could have sworn there was a wall there before. Did it go on holiday? Do walls go on holiday, Germany? Ve~, I'll bet it went to visit its family in Rome!"

Disinclined to respond, Germany simply raises his eyebrows.

France sinks a little further into his chair, appropriately belittled. For a nation so young, Germany certainly enjoys a talent for delivering scathing _looks_ in a devastating, parent-like fashion.

"It's really fine." England says suddenly, something which France (again) simply cannot understand- this is normally the point in their discussion when the two will unleash a decidedly immature barrage of insults and outraged shouts of "_he started it!_'' unto poor Germany. Yet here is England, doing his absolute utmost to leave the room as quickly and France-less as possible.

"What is the matter with you?" he inquires, almost entirely without malice. And very much to his exasperation, he is again ignored.

"Do you suppose it is physically possible," Germany suggests, collecting himself at last, his face regaining its regular colouring, "for the two of you to go a day, just a day-" and here, his voice reaches a near-hysterical pitch, "without aggravating one another?"

France cocks his head to once side. In all honesty, the concept had never even occurred to him. Interesting.

"I thought they had to." Blurts Italy (who has somehow acquired a bouncy ball) from the floor. "I thought they got lonely otherwise." He supplies when Germany gives him a quizzical look.

"Please," England scoffs, "it's not as if we're joined at the hip-"

"Could have fooled me," Germany interrupts snidely, seemingly very determined to ignore the annoying _bouncebouncebounce_ of the ball in the background.

"I don't profess to understand precisely what opinion you may have of us right now, Germany. But I can assure you that our... disagreements, as it were, are not the result of some sort of... unhealthy co-dependency."

"Then what?" Germany despairs, and then turns sharply and wild-eyed, as though something within him had broken abruptly. Through gritted teeth, he orders, "_Go outside with that thing, Italy_!" a cough, "Why does _every_ encounter need to end in destruction?"

"I-" England attempts to answer, but suddenly stops in his tracks. It appears as though he hasn't the foggiest clue as to how to answer Germany's (partially rhetorical) question. Wracking his brains for the words, France realises that, quite alarmingly, he doesn't have an answer either.

_Oh_, France thinks. _Oh_. Of _course_. He has known precisely _how_ to elicit a reaction from his neighbour for centuries- but _why_ England behaved so, why France himself behaved so, oh! _Why_ was another question entirely!

It dawns on him that, if they cannot explain their own actions, how could they possibly begin to explain the other? It was the most tragic case of the blind leading the blind, wherein both had understood it to be the other who was the leader, the one who knew it all. In truth, there was no leader, and in turn, no direction. Groping for some kind of understanding, they had managed to map out the entirety of a maze without first asking why it was that they were trapped inside. How perfectly absurd! To France, England was a murder mystery novel where the culprit expressed no motivations. A clockwork toy operated to perfection, the machinery left unexamined.

(Oh, France thinks again. What a brilliant metaphor. He really ought to write a book one of these days).

The look on England's face tells France that he has reached precisely the same conclusion. (Only that conclusion was liable to sound considerably stupider. Because France is amazing and that is that.)

"I understand completely," England finishes amicably enough. Rising from his seat, he nods curtly before saying, "It _won't_ happen again." He assures, offering France a pointed look as Germany threatens to topple in sheer unadulterated shock at the lack of protest.

Apparently not, then.

Furiously crossing his arms in the afterglow of his epiphanic haughtiness, France turned his nose skyward, away from England's pointed glare. He had reached his conclusion and would not waver: to neglect his disdain for France was for England to neglect a piece of his own soul: they needed one another, couldn't live without inciting the other's fury. However, when he states as much, he goes unheard. He feels a small victory, however, in the fact that England cannot resist "accidentally" kicking France in the shin upon his exit.

As he leaves, France turns to Germany with an outraged cry of "Did you see that? Did you _see_ that?"

_bouncebounceCRASH _

"_Germanyyyyyyyyyyy_!"

"My creeping tension headache tells me I'm going to say no." Replies Germany tersely.

* * *

><p><span>In which England is an insane person, but at least he apolgises.<span>

It isn't possible, in an argument between the two of them, for one person to be right, and the other to be wrong. France had learned and accepted this notion, centuries before the latest World Meeting debacle. However, he is always sheerly delighted to share the information that, in fact, the best part about being _slightly more right_ than England in an argument laden with wrongs is that England will always take days and days to admit that he has made a mistake of any kind and that the ensuing pained apology is enough to feed an ego even of his own size for months.

Wafting around in a cloud of the most unadulterated smugness, he assumes this is why England has called France into his home on such short notice.

Rather unlike the remainder of the house- scantily furnished (in practical designs) to a most disheartening degree-, he has always considered England's home office to be quite charmingly decorated, not that he would ever say as much. He voluntarily spends every second of solitude he enjoys during his visits in this room, because it's a room that nurtures creativity, a warm hive for ideas to grow to self-sufficiency and step out into the world- a place to write, and think, and _be_. The room itself is not lavish aside from its spaciousness. The floor is clear, but the walls are lined with mismatched shelves and cupboards, quite unsurprisingly covered with trinkets and books; things that England has retrieved, received, stolen, and earned over the years. Things kept out of fondness and things kept out of duty. Things to be regularly reflected upon and things that must be kept so that they are never looked at again (being a veritable master of flouting rules set by England, France has rifled through these particular things on many an occasion).

It also appears that he possesses a troublingly large quantity of swords.

"And if that isn't a metaphor for something," France chuckles to himself, and sets about locating the bottle of red wine he knows is somewhere around here (if only England would stop hiding it, simply because France drinks an entire bottle upon every visit, honestly) "I don't know what is."

The swords are in various sizes and states of repair, but more than anything else in the room they represent England's hoarding habits. Makes from every era and culture imaginable line the shelves, are tucked behind cases, leaning against walls.

He clicks his tongue, stepping lightly over a dilapidated coffee table (a gift to England from a human companion of France. Either those two had gotten along far too well, or France was too fond of arguing with his companions, because they had sincerely enjoyed banding together to cause him distress), and wonders where on earth England has hidden the alcohol this time. Shuffling past the sewing machine ("_It was a gift! I swear. France, stop laughing, you sod!_") he is rather perturbed to find an old unobtrusively brown cabinet; the cabinet France knows is littered with trinkets from various long-past encounters between England and himself, is currently locked.

How symbolic. It's almost vomitous.

"How very curious, Angleterre. Is this meant to be representative of your intense love of _yours truly_." He shakes his head with a smile and makes his way towards a bright red box atop the cabinet, the perfect size to hide a wine bottle, "The affection you must keep under lock and key, so that it does not outwardly break you. Let it come unbidden, Angleterre. Nobody can deny their admiration of my wonderful ways for too long!"

Surreptitiously retrieving the bottle from the red box, he chuckles and congratulates himself for his own wit, before a cough behind him nearly sends him crawling out of his own skin in fright.

"That's expensive. If you drink it, I may just have to kill you."

"AH!" eternally grateful for his sharp reflexes (honed from years of avoiding punches to the face for unwanted sexual advances), France manages to prevent the bottle from smashing on the floor. England possesses rather the knack for frightening the life out of France, not that he would ever say as much. He manages to recover quite smoothly, however, "Ah, you are here Angleterre!" he makes no move to return the bottle. Instead, he sashays across the room and pops the cork, "Wine?" he inquires, fetching two glasses without waiting for a response.

England follows him in moody acquiescence, grumbling all the while. "_This_." He says, somewhat dramatically, "This is _my_ house, and here you are, _pilfering_ my drinks."France silences him with a finger to the lips and the offer of a wine glass, and is granted a glare equal parts amused and disapproving for his efforts.

"Angleterre, you complain far too much. Complaints are the least appealing of many unattractive things that spill from your mouth, and I feel compelled to silence you. Drink."

England responds simply by snatching the glass and mutters another nonsensical (and subsequently completely ignored) protest against France's behaviour, before downing the glass in a manner that good wine ought never to be treated. Conversely, France takes his time, gazing out the office window. His silence is testament to the fact that, for once, he actually has something of consequence to say.

"So," he says at great length, "to what do I owe the pleasure of being invited into your, somewhat lifelessly, nevertheless tastefully decorated home?"

"I presume you wanted some clarification as to my actions last week." France duly notes that it isn't the insult England bristles at.

"Oh, I suppose," France replies languidly, one hip jutted to the side as he contemplates his drink, "in all honesty, I was prepared to chalk it up to the fact you had finally lost your mind."

"I was under the impression that you already thought me insane."

"...Moreso." he amends. "Though this was, perhaps at least partially my fault? I confess, the impromptu facial decoration was impolite." A delighted chuckle escaping from his throat in the ensuing awkward silence, France notices England's steadfast glower falter a little. "I still cannot believe it landed right on it-"

"That was humiliating!" England explodes, the very picture of despairing embarrassment present on his features.

"And so was being ignored." France replies in all seriousness. After a tense silence, he clears his throat. "What, pray tell, was the purpose of the entire ordeal?"

"Honestly?"

"Honestly." France confirms.

Unexpectedly, England then tries his utmost to conceal a sheepish smile by taking another long drink of wine, directly from the bottle. France quite suddenly feels the urge to both laugh raucously and engage in another brawl- damn the man to hell: England hasn't the foggiest idea himself. In all possibility, he had simply been looking for an argument that day, and France, like a fool, played straight into his hands. England had elicited, can always elicit, the right reaction, as easily as if France were a clockwork...

_Oh_.

Oh, France is _much_ better at this introspection thing than he had originally thought.

"So you weren't particularly inclined to ignore me, then."

"I suppose you could consider it an experiment." England murmurs, eyeing the bottle again, for want of something other than France to make eye contact with, "An existence attempted without you..." a long pause, "breathing down my _neck_-what are you _doing_?"

"Hm?" queries France, removing his hand from England's waist. In recent days, his perversion has been left by the wayside in favour of now-alleviated confusion and, after all, he is France; and France can only quell the urge to make those around him uncomfortable for so long...

"You are a strange creature." his current victim drawls, slapping away a slowly returning arm, "Regardless, I feel... I ought to apologise. And so," England turns a little green. "I am...for want of a better word- and for all intents and purposes- I suppose-."

"Oh, mon ami! We have settled the matter now, it is unbecoming of either of us to behave so sensitively." To hear England say such a dreadful word as 'sorry'; France thought he might simply vomit in response, in lieu of any available appropriate thing to say.

"Did you just _dismiss_ my apology?"

"I may well have. You appeared a little physically ill there, I didn't think a verbal apology was going to be of benefit to either of us if you had thrown up all over my shoes. These are new, you know."

"Then perhaps," says England cooly, after a moment of disbelieving silence. He leans ever so slightly towards one display shelf. "We ought to put the matter to rest in a different manner."

France has only time enough to shriek in alarm before a _goddamn sword_ is tossed directly towards his face. He manages some sort of laughable flail of alarm before it lands at his feet. Awkwardly stooping to retrieve it, he eyes England's wild, fierce expression incredulously, and then grins. Although often verbose, England can, in actuality, say very little about himself with his words.

"Oh, you are _perfectly_ ridiculous."

And with that, he scuttles forward to face England, his startled, joyous yell lost in the slide of metal-on-metal (a sound which he would cheerfully admit gets his heart racing for all the wrong reasons) as England draws his sword. France bows daintily, with much flailing of hands, and is unsurprised to find England has not returned the gesture. France opts to drop the facade of his own volition and draws his own weapon without fuss; for England's even stare and devilish smile has already stripped him naked. (He is a gentleman to the last, in a gentleman's setting. But when he fights- he fights like a scoundrel: hot-blooded and cruel, with his teeth and with his skull, and, on occasion, with snarky comments about the other's weight).

England is lithe, and nimbler than France expects, than he remembers. His parries appear light, but in actuality are brutally strong. The unexpected power and grace from such a stocky little thing has always been a source of admiration.

With a jarring clang, he barely manages to stop England, who has all-too swiftly thrown himself into the fun, from landing a blow directly through the skull. Ducking under England's raised arm, he swings violently to the left and attempts a swipe through England's ribcage, momentarily thankful that they can't be killed by these means (though he's not entirely sure he ought to be, as the sight of his own face split clean in two, had England's sword met its mark, would have been a truly hideous one to endure). His attack proves futile as England skids across the wooden floors beneath them to the side, and blocks France's sword again. With a light hop-step to his left, other arm tucked neatly behind his back, he faces France, toe to toe for a moment, before retreating. His face is stony, but his eyes betray sheer delight. He really is _dancing_; France _wishes_ they had an audience. Wishes they could see England; fearfully beautiful and talented and utterly absurd, fencing in his business suit; all snarling (wonderful, _wonderful_) shouts and swift violence.

"_Angleterre_, you amuse me so." France chides, "Whatever happened to the decline of your roguish nature?"

A harsh laugh, "I don't see anyone here who might be troubled."

"Au _contraire_, I rather love it."

France surprises even himself when he suddenly disarms England. Emerald eyes wide, England stands eerily still for a moment before bursting into peals of laughter. It strikes France that in any normal event, England would have opted to try and claw his eyes out in response to such a statement. He finds this to be infinitely more awful.

"Now, France, we wouldn't want to go about falling in love with any part of me."

There is a bubble of real nervousness in England's voice, and France becomes momentarily so horrified he thinks he might begin to cry. Or laugh. And either would be potentially resulting in France's injury. Quashing the feeling, at least partially, he lurches forward, flinging an arm around England's small, but strong shoulders and teasingly stage whispers "I would never! I know you too well to possibly be fooled into loving you!"

England turns his head to retort, and France finds himself quite accidentally nose-to-nose with the man. In the charged moment that it takes England to glance away, something shifts. The use of a weapon, rather than his bare hands, France realises, although seemingly hot-headed, was not for sheer entertainment, but a more sincere apology than words. A symbol of vulnerability: a relic of the past to show his willingness to return things to normal. The same vulnerability England will demonstrate by occasionally neglecting to unceremoniously shove France's arm away, or letting someone catch him staring longingly after America. England gulps and slowly answers, "You, erm. You do know me best."

France finds himself in the middle ground. Here, he is torn between the blinding and depressing notions that perhaps he will never know England, and that he _does_ know him, a puzzle that is so nearly complete it is frightening to imagine what that last piece will be, because it is the most important (because it is _why_ the puzzle exists). It becomes all the more intimidating when France considers the prospect that the final piece is something England must give away _himself_.

And so, he inches closer, says "I can't possibly know you that well. I still put up with you, after all.", and _waits_.

"Or perhaps that's why." England ponders. At length, he seems to return to himself. Says "If you think you're going to get a kiss, by the way, you can sod off-"

"Why, it hadn't even crossed my mind!" France bellows, and positively leaps away.

"Of course not." England splutters. Turns a delightful shade of magenta in the process.

England, he knows entirely too well. Knows how to get under his skin- how to make him laugh, and make him _inexplicably_ start a sword fight. But England's intentions would forever be unclear. There isn't a shred of doubt in his mind that England; predictable to the last in one instance, but unfathomable in the next, and perpetually fascinating the times in between; has the same purely accidental effect on his own character.

Not that he would ever say as much.

"Whatever it is you're thinking, frog," says England with a wry smile, "I could say the same for you."


End file.
